


who, where

by shitfuck edgelord (dragonflame3333)



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:12:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflame3333/pseuds/shitfuck%20edgelord
Summary: it's a trick question; the 'who' depends on the 'where' depends on the 'who's asking'?small rambly character study of joker. (as if i ever write anything else, ugh.)





	who, where

**Author's Note:**

> persona 5 owns my ass and i just had to get out some of the feelings i had about (predictably, come on, it's just not fair how well his character does it for me) joker. because despite being technically a player insert, he has one hell of a personality. (that i should've emphasized more, lmao whoops)
> 
> anyway thats all, stay tuned for trashy crossover fanfiction between my favorite edgelord adult-hating meganes, reaperneki and joker (I WISH)

By day, he is quiet.

A semi-studious student, textbooks held tightly to chest on the cluttered and crowded subway train, he sidles his way to a seat wordlessly, other hand clutching a small novel pressed to plastic-rimmed eyes. He is small, almost insignificant.

(The people around him scarcely notice him, for once.)

In the hallway, they whisper about him, but he is still. No response unless prompted. No reaction if unnecessary. Silent until spoken to. One could almost call him meek.

(He resists the urge to meet sharp words with unflinching eyes, a tamed fierceness held in check by sheer willpower. He could do it. Cow them easily. Just a flash of a smile. The merest hint of teeth. 'Do you need something?' Heads turning away at the speed of whiplash.)

They expect him to growl, hackles raised. To lash out like a wild animal, so they can sedate and cage him.

But he doesn't. He's a good boy, living a wholesome student life.

(That's what he's got to sell, anyway.)

Hands in his pockets, he keeps his gaze cast downward drearily, dreamily, as if tired of the real world and all its injustices, as if choosing instead the romanticism of a world of his own imaginings.

(Not inaccurate, he supposes, except that fantasy and reality are far closer than most would assume. The truth is what you make of it, and what those in power scheme to make it. He knows this better than any.)

Quiet boy, pure boy. Sweetly silent. It is a mask he willingly dons at sunrise, for that too, is a part of him.

(He's never been one for excess talking anyway. Action over words and all that.)

And yet despite his carefully arranged disposition, he is still different. Through the whispers of his classmates, he is troublemaker, delinquent, criminal. Even the teachers want nothing to do with him. His assault record says it all, and if that weren't enough, look at who he associates with! The flunkies, the friendless, the freaks. Like calls like; birds of a feather will tear at carrion together.

(What a rotten society, he thinks to himself.)

Preconceptions and rumors make up the unconscious and uncontrollable aspects of his being, and though they are ill-earned, he wears this, too--an uncomfortable mask that nips and pricks his skin at the edges.

(To be fair, he muses, he does technically have an assault on his record. Undeserved, but what does that matter?)

Well, he can't entirely blame them. It's that man's fault, this society's fault. Unjust, but he already knows what is just. They can't take the truth away from him. He'll show them one day, pull the wool from their eyes and watch them tear up in the light.

But for now, he wears that mask. One of thorns and rust, twisted with distortion. It hurts, but he does not flinch. For that is what they think of him, and so that too is a part of him, never mind the discomfort. He's never shied away from pain and painful truths.

The mask he thinks he likes the best is that of thief. From the ashes of his old self, he begins anew. A rebel, a revolutionary, a renegade out to steal the blackened hearts of man and incite an uprising in the callous and unthinking masses. To pass judgement on the hypocritically judgmental. He will deliver justice where no one else may, and he will do it as leader.

(There is, in fact, honor among thieves--honor, and trust, and love he's never felt anywhere else.)

He tears off his face just to fit a new one on, and he smiles as the blood drips down his cheeks. The fire inside him he hides during the day bursts in the shadows of the dark, shattering his chains and casting his flickering silhouette across the false gold of man's folly. "Persona," he calls out, impossibly loud, and the voices of many echo back. He is the trickster of many masks and he breathes life into each and every one of them.

And he loves it. Loves the feeling of red leather pressed tight against his hands, loves the click of chests as he plucks treasure from shell so tenderly. Loves the wind rippling through his clothes as he scales walls, loves the adrenaline surging through his body as he leaps atop foes with a flourish, revealing their true selves. It's a dance, really, and who more fluent than he? He can't help himself when he's in the thrill of the heist; he grins from ear to ear, savage as a hyena yet elegant as a hawk. God, he's so fucking alive. He swoops in toward his prey, silently, stealthily, and he steals their hearts with ease.

And for the first time, he feels it throbbing in his chest. The rhythm, the ache. His heart sings jazz, bassline thrumming through his veins. It doesn't go away.

He is calm, composed, cool and smooth and salving like water in the desert or balm over chapped lips.

He's a great listener. Empathy comes easily to him, unsurprisingly.

You already know what to do, come the words. Get up. Get out there.

"You're right," they say, smiling faintly. "I feel better after talking to you."

He ducks beneath his bangs shyly, quietly, understanding. He knows what they want, what they need. He acts as a mirror reflecting their true desires back at them. He heals, he liberates.

Then he pivots, plucked strings issuing a sharp warning--blue flames fly up chains to lick his coattails, setting his figure alight. He is magnanimous, suddenly; greater than life. His chaste smile twists into a smirk. It's the same pose, same person, just a different angle, different mood. His mask disintegrates and remolds into another mask, for he has endless personas to hide behind, each as true as the last. He is trickster; he is wild.

His heart sings jazz, erratic and carefree, dancing to its uncommon time, unmarked and unknowable.

It is a slightly different song and dance every time, a slightly different variation. A phantom, they call him. A phantom, he calls himself. And that too, is another mask--or rather, the act of changing masks. Which is the real? All, and none. Perception composes reality, and the composition of his heart changes time and key between every passing glance thrown at him. He is someone different to everyone. Enemy, rival, friend, lover. None is more real than other.

It is a curious tightrope he walks on. One wonders where he's going, where it leads. Will he fall?

(Of course not; a phantom thief never falls on accident.)

The flames flicker.

Sometimes he wonders if his fire is just smoke and mirror, whether there's a real him at all or just endless reflections. An array of masks, each yearning to be taken. Which is true? The most worn? Or is that just the one he's taken to defend himself, satisfy the desires of others? Where does persona end and person begin?

Every identity he's taken has served a purpose. They've never been for the sake of being. He is fluid, yes--unable to take shape, incapable of holding tight that which he deems dear.

He looks to his past, his future. All in flames. His family abandoned him. His old friends rejected him. His country denounced him. The people want him in chains or a coffin. Despite all that he's been--who he's been--he is, undeniably, unwanted.

And yet... Is that not him? Is that not his nature, to pluck opportunity from the still-burning cinders of condemnation? Given an unjust fate, subjected to cruel and unusual punishment, doomed to failure from the very start, he's turned the tables and emerged victorious every time. What doubt is there to be had compared to the conviction in his heart?

He is justice. It does not matter if he is not wanted; he is needed. The verdict has been made; the die cast. Though confusing and nebulous, this is his existence.

And while we're at it, what's wrong with confusing? That's youth, damn it! As long as his core remains standing, as long as he stays true to his beliefs, what does it matter that the rest flows as liquid--gas now, smoke billowing into the night.

(Where there is smoke, there is fire, he tells himself, and smiles. With his power, he will protect that which is precious. Any who disagree will have a lovely dinner roasting in the flames of his retribution. Some fates are worse than death.)

They call him Joker, for what could be more apt? It takes a sense of humor to stand tall in a world that does not want you. Wildcard, wildcard, you're cheating--oh, but to win against cheaters you must learn to play by their rules. In a lawless land, it is the strong and the clever who survive, and who moreso than him? He who steals inspiration from his companions, hearts from his enemies. The jack of all trades cannot become journeyman without master, and in seeking aid he provides salvation to others.

And yet, for all his ideals... Hero is not a mask he wears. He doesn't see himself as such, not really; he stands for his personal justice in order to protect himself. To protect the core of who he is. A person's beliefs shape their reality. He knows this better than anyone. If he lets them crumble, he lets himself fall as well. Some might call him a martyr, but not him. Saving others is his way of saving himself.

(You cannot betray the ones you love without in some way betraying yourself.)

To someone like him, what are friends? Friends come and go. Even blood relation cannot be counted on. No, what he has are bonds--oaths to be kept beyond pain of death. Beyond mere friendship. He would die for them, and they for him. It is his looks and his smile and his words that lend him charisma--but also his actions, his justice, his sacrifice. He has taken the fall, and he would do so again in a heartbeat. He would. He has. He will.

(He is selfish in his selflessness. He knows that as long as he stays true to them--and himself--they will be true to him.)

And for their part? They'll be there to catch him, every time.

(They wouldn't make very good phantom thieves otherwise. In a game of evershifting truths, there's got to be honor among thieves.)


End file.
